Free The Corpse Washer (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Sinan Antoon

shore was covered with calcifications that looked like cauliflowers with cavities carved by the salts that filled the lake’s waters forming a wall on all sides.
    I asked Basim about the fish in the lake. He said it had only one kind, and it was not edible. We squatted and I extended my hand to dip it in the water. It was very cold, as cold as the water I applied now to the body of this man who looked like Basim’s twin. I felt guilty.
Here I am washing a dead man’s body while my thoughts are wandering in the fissures of my memory. Did father do this as well, or did he focus on his rituals all day long? Is that possible? Here I am, carrying them out in a semimechanical way.
    We used to escape to the lake whenever we had a chance, to sit on its shore and chat. Once, while we were driving around in Basim’s car, I saw gutted buildings near the lake. He called them tourist relics. In the late 1980s, the Ministry of Tourism had built a number of apartments and a restaurant in an effort to encourage tourism in the area. The spot became a mecca for family and school trips, but the place was looted and abandoned after the 1991 war. I asked him to take me there. The sight was sad. Nothing was left except the concrete skeletons of the apartment buildings that had been built steep to provide a lake view. They looked like fossils of mythic animals crouched at the lake’s feet.
    American fighter jets hovered over our unit all the time. Weheard in the news about antiaircraft batteries being bombed after the no-fly zone was imposed in northern and southern Iraq after 1992. The no-fly zone was supposed to prevent the regime from oppressing citizens, but these fighter jets would kill innocent civilians and even herders. I never knew whether it was out of sheer idiocy, or whether it was a game, using Iraqis for target practice. Our C.O. stressed that we should ignore the jets and try not to incite the enemy. We were not to lock onto a target and give the pilot a pretext to attack us. Soldiers were ordered to maintain a defensive posture and respond only if attacked. This is how we had many months of peace.
    We were awakened at dawn one day by the sound of a massive explosion which shook the factory (as we called our unit). Two more explosions followed. Then we heard the sounds of rocks and pebbles falling on the ceilings and windows and the whizzing of a fighter jet overhead. I got out of bed, quickly put on my uniform, boots, and helmet, and darted outside with the others. I remembered that Basim had been assigned to the night guard shift outside the southern building near the missile battery. Thinking of him, I felt a lump in my throat.
    The bombing had caused a storm of dust, some of which got into my eyes and mouth. Shards were scattered in the open space between the two buildings. I could smell gunpowder. Everyone was running toward the southern building, which was about a hundred meters from the main building. The entire building and its tin plank roof had been destroyed, leaving only one of its four columns intact. There was chaos. Some soldiers were trying to lift the tangle of metal and gray blocks to look for survivors under the debris.
    I went around the rubble of the building to look for Basim. I used to ridicule those who claimed, before some terrible or painful event took place, “I felt it in my heart.” But as I ran toward the back of the building, I felt my heart as a deep well into which stones from every direction began to rain. The branches of the tree next to the missile battery had caught fire. The truck with missiles mounted on it was now a mass of rising flames. Some soldiers were trying to put the fireout with dirt and fire extinguishers. Pieces of metal were scattered about. I spotted a body twenty meters to my right and ran toward it.
    He had been thrown onto his stomach, but I recognized his hair. His weapon was three or four meters away. I screamed his name as I ran, but he didn’t move. His left arm was